


The Elements of Style

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Series: Prompt Responses [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cooking, Dogs, Drunk Texting, Family Member Death, Famous Sam Winchester, House Sitting, M/M, Texting, Writers, dog sitting, love before first sight, perils of the gig economy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 08:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21096119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: As prompted byoutpastthemoat: Dog-sitter Chuck/dog-owner Sam; Chuck is housesitting and falling in love with the guy who lives in this house.





	The Elements of Style

Chuck is struggling for work. His aversion to 9-5 office jobs has always been pretty strong and he’ll be damned if he returns to foodservice. He did three years as a waiter during college and then his fourth year as a bartender. It was a depressing cap to a soul-crushing experience. Pretty much his only other option is retail, right now, and if you get stuck in retail for more than a year, you get stuck there pretty much for life.

What he wants to do – what he really wants to be doing with his life – is writing. But it’s hard to drive for Uber or Lyft and write at, like, stoplights. More so considering he was barely covering the cost of gas and his fares, at least the older ones, often compelled him into some fucking awkward chat instead of giving him the peace to think.

Customer service isn’t really conducive to a productive writing environment. So he’s been taking warehouse jobs, contract work as a painter, and shit like that. It isn’t too bad. People don’t bother him in the break room, or in the car, or under the shade of trees when he stops to take breaks and work in his notebook.

He’s got a few friends who are in similar positions, like Phil and Amanda and Anna. Only they’re also attractive enough to be social media influencers and shit and Instagram and YouTube prop up their finances.

It’s Anna who calls him, one day. She’s been house-sitting kinda long-term for a guy who’s finally gonna be back in about a month, but Anna has to go north all of a sudden. Her father’s health has taken a turn for the worse and she honestly doesn’t know if she’s gonna be there to help with caretaking or a funeral or both. She just texts Chuck the directions to the house and he shows up.

She’s shoving the last of her belongings into the car when he gets there. And there are four dogs of varying sizes watching her from the grass and the sidewalk, nearby. A fifth dog circles her ankles in distress, whining.

Honestly, he feels that. Anna looks pretty wrecked.

“This is Thursday,” she says, snatching the dog up from the ground after almost-tripping on him a third time. She practically shoves him into Chuck’s hands. “Wednesday and Tuesday are in the grass,” she points to the one sniffing around at the sidewalk. “Sunday.”

“I’m... guessing Monday, Saturday, and Friday are in the house?” it feels like it should be a joke, but she gives him wide eyes as she starts hauling her last suitcase into the trunk. “What’s really hilarious is there’s an eighth named Ralph.”

Huh. “I was expecting January or something.”

“So, look,” she slams the doors closed on her bags. “He left a bunch of instructions out. I put them back on the kitchen counter for you. He’s home again on the 28th. He’s coming in by car, so he doesn’t need a ride from the airport or anything. Sunday ate something she wasn’t supposed to last week and she was throwing up for a while, but she’s been fine lately. You’ll see the vet’s info and where the dog food is. It’s all pretty prominent. And, of course, you can stay here. I was using the first-floor guest room. He doesn’t restrict the dogs from anything but the garage. Okay?”

“Got it.” Yeah, he says that, but it’s actually all pretty overwhelming with Thursday yipping and struggling out of his arms. “Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got it.”

“You’re a lifesaver. His number is on the fridge. That’s where you send the payment request, Venmo or whatever,” she’s distracted by pulling Tuesday up and into her arms and brushing grass off her ears. “He already knows what’s going on and he’s good for it. You won’t have any issues. He’s a cool guy so just, you know...” she opens the driver’s-side door. “Don’t run off with his tv or anything.”

Chuck rolls his eyes, “Geeze. That’s a real high opinion you have of m-”

“Sorry,” really, she’s just rambling at this point, trying to make a hasty retreat. He’s sure it must have been a struggle. She’s been able to camp out here since she finished grad school in August. Anything that’s not in storage was traveling around with her. She’s practically gonna be living in her car, now. “You know I don’t mean-”

“I know,” he waves her off and shakes his head, shooing her away. “Go. Go, I’ll text you if I have any questions or whatever. Or text him. Just get home.”

She hugs the dog close and then sets it down by Chuck’s feet. She squeezes his arm. “A lifesaver, really. Truly, Chuck.”

He goes to herd Sunday away from the driveway and waves until Anna’s taillights disappear down the road.

“Okay, everybody,” he sighs. He takes Thursday into the house only to be ambushed by the four other dogs who wag and sniff and bark at him trying to figure him out. He’s gotta shut the door carefully to keep them inside and, eventually, he even has to tempt Tuesday, Wednesday, and Sunday into the house with treats. They almost slip out again when he goes to get his few bags out of the car, but then he shuts them all inside and pulls his car keys from his pocket. Anna gave him the house key. He slips it onto one of the rings.

Eight sets of paws all tap a different sound into the tile floors as the dogs follow him across a huge house.

It’s so clean that he’s intimidated by it. With eight fucking pets, how is he supposed to keep this up to Anna’s established standards? It’s mind-boggling.

He finds the kitchen and the notes left for her. They’re kinda rumpled. Either the homeowner has people house-sit for him a lot, or Anna fished these out of the trash after establishing a good routine over the first month.

Chuck sighs and reads them under his breath. Yeah, only the garage is off-limits to the dogs. He wonders why, but it’s easy to assume. Rodent bait or poisonous weedkiller for the lawn. Oil and fumes. Whatever.

“_Anna’s shelf is second from the top_,” he reads. She’s scribbled a note next to the typed text: _My leftovers are free game. Go for it._

Chuck takes a peek and silently thanks her for this job again. The shelf is more than half-full of stuff for sandwiches and foil-wrapped takeout. He isn’t gonna have to blow money on food for like a week.

The top shelf is a wicked temptation, though. It’s stocked with beer, all in his brand.

“Your dad has good taste...,” Chuck leans down to check the curious dog’s tag, “Tuesday. Yeah, good taste, Tuesday,” he pets the dog and closes the fridge. Snags the second note. It’s got the info about feeding the dogs, which ones need to be watched, how Friday gets scared of the neighbor to the left and won’t poop if she sees him. Ralph has his own food and seems affectionately branded the troublemaker of the bunch. A daily tally is on the back of the note. Every time Anna fed them and the barfing incident and all that.

The last note is signed “Sam.” It’s got the homeowner’s back-up contacts, the vet’s number, a note about the security system, and Sam’s tentative travel schedule. He’s on a tour of some kind.

Chuck blinks at the name.

He saw something in passing, when he went through the living room. A familiar piece of art.

He frowns and backtracks and turns around and goes to the office that’s off the hallway. It’s got a big, beautiful window facing the side yard just inside the fence, tall hibiscus framing it in color, stark green and bright pops of yellow, outside.

A poster for a book. _Red Meat, A Horror Thriller by SAM WINCHESTER._

Chuck looks at the note in his hand.

“You’re shitting me,” he says to Tuesday, who only knocks into his knees in reply.

But Chuck looks around the office and there are, like, stacks of old laptops. Drives. And loose-bound rough drafts of books. Along with hardcover first-editions of _Time for A Wedding_, _Caged Heat_, the sequel to _Red Meat_: _Swap Meat_, and _All Hell Breaks Loose_.

This dude is a fucking up-and-coming star. They’re making _Red Meat_ into a fucking movie. They’re calling him the new Stephen King

“I gotta sit down,” he announces to Sunday, who barks in agreement.

He plops down into the office chair. There’s a rectangular place, free of debris on the desk, where a laptop is missing.

Sam is off signing books in another state. He took his next work of horror genius with him on his computer.

He’s got five bestsellers and Anna knows him from school.

If Chuck’s putting the dots together correctly, this is the guy whose brother she dated briefly. From what he recalls, Sam’s brother is a little older. He and Anna both decided it was kinda weird... and she wasn’t into the younger brother for some reason? Or he wasn’t into her. They were friends and... she knew him from her easy-A art courses.

And so _this_ is the guy who left law school to sell his horror stories.

Anna was housesitting for Sam fucking Winchester.

And now Chuck is.

Wow.

He has to have a quick set of questions prepared for when this guy gets home. He has to pick his brain somehow because, in pretty much the same amount of time, Chuck has sold barely anything. Sam is his same age and somehow he’s already doing what Chuck wants to do for a living. It’s fucking wild.

What’s wilder is the contact information in his hand right now. And the big phone number written on the fridge.

He is now within one text of this guy at all times.

Speaking of which. He sits there for a while longer and carefully constructs a text. Nonchalant but not _too_ nonchalant, you know? Drops his email for the payment and asks if Sam would like any specific updates since Chuck will be taking over.

He’s hit back really quickly (once he finally stops sweating and hits ‘send’).

** _Got it. Just let me know if_ **  
** _ Sunday gets any worse_ **  
** _ again. But I think she should_ **  
** _ be fine, now._ **

Next, Chuck gets a bank alert that he’s got half the month’s payment up-front.

Yeah. He’s definitely going to hit that beer in the fridge and go buy a replacement pack before Sam gets home.

* * *

It’s two days later when Chuck finally has time between writing cheap blog articles to wade through the dogs and do some exploring.

He starts with the garage and Wednesday gets really upset with him, like she knows nobody is supposed to go in there. She whines and whines. Whines and scratches through the door when he closes the dogs into the house and flips on the light.

In the garage is a pristine, shining black Impala. Chuck is no good with car years but it’s an old hulk of a thing and it’s gorgeous, even to a layman. It’s got a certain restless energy, like it’s sick of sitting here in the dark.

There’s space enough for another car, the one that Sam must have taken out on the road.

Chuck heard the landscapers come and go early yesterday, so he doesn’t think there’s any dangerous shit stored in the garage.

But when he peeks in the window of the car, there are Post-it Notes on the wheel, the dashboard, the seats, all in a scrawl and all with the same message.

** _NO DOGS, SAM. I MEAN IT._ **

** _NO DOGS EVER._ **

** _NO FLEAS NO DROOL NO WET NOSE PRINTS._ **

On and on, fluttering on every surface. Weird.

He finds out why, when he eventually ventures to Sam’s room to find where Monday has hidden himself.

The dog is in a warm spot, under a window, on top of a treadmill.

There are a few pictures in the bedroom. And Chuck wonders if that’s Sam, standing with the older brother Anna dated. He’s in military fatigues in another picture, grinning with a huge, bearded guy, both of them flashing USMC tattoos.

Must be he’s deployed and Sam is holding on to his car and he’s not supposed to get dog hair in it. That makes a lot more sense, now.

The first time it happens, that tug on Chuck’s heart, is when he finds the only picture that isn’t tucked into a door frame or tacked onto a cork board. It’s lovingly framed and it’s a little faded with age.

Next to Sam’s closet is a picture of two people who must be his mom and dad. Heads pushed together and grinning. Young and in love. He wonders if the house behind them was theirs.

And, having read three of Sam’s books, Chuck also wonders if that house burned down.

It’s a running theme in his writing. The same way that Chuck can’t stop writing about drowning – about his own childhood trauma.

The photo is old but these two people look new and happy. They’re framed on one blank wall. Honored.

Chuck doesn’t have to wonder why there are no newer pictures of them anywhere.

He hugs Monday in his arms and sighs and leaves the bedroom, shutting the door most the way as he leaves.

* * *

The next time Chuck feels that tug is the following week, when he’s had four of Sam’s beers in one sitting and he’s gone from feeling guilty (despite the fact that he’s reserved enough money to pay Sam back) to feeling utterly enchanted by the way Tuesday and Wednesday do absolutely everything together. Their names are so fucking apt. They’re such good doggos!!

He lies on the kitchen floor playing with them for a long time. He even sleeps on the living room couch and wakes up under a pile of fur and fuzzy little bodies.

He’s aghast to find, upon plugging in his phone, after he showers, that Sam has texted him several times.

He scrolls up to the top of the thread.

Sometime after his last beer he must have thought he was shooting off a brilliant fucking idea:

**If ur dogs were days**  
** of the week underwear,**  
** Ralph would be Leap Day.**

Chuck slaps a hand to his face.

Oh fuck. What the fuck?

What the fuck does that even mean???

Sam responded nicely enough. “LMAO” and all that. And then explained that Ralph was his only rescue with a name and he actually came into the pack between Thursday and Friday.

And then Sam asked,  
**_How is everything?_**

And Chuck replied,  
**Idk, man, I’m kina drunk??**

And Sam just said,  
**_K. Drink water, dude.  
_**And then proceeded to try to check on Chuck all throughout the next morning.

_Oh no._

* * *

There is a shed out back. And the shed doesn’t have landscaping equipment, either. It has art supplies stacked up and packed away neatly, reverently. Chuck wonders if they belonged to Sam’s mom or something. They’re meticulously labeled with lists on the side. Jess’ canvas, Jess’ oils, Jess’ clay.

These things are all behind books and artifacts, though.

Chuck assumes they’re fake artifacts. Or recreations. Or something. The tomes are old and scrubby, clearly handed down and well-thumbed. You’d mistake it all for, like, antiques, at first.

But it’s more than that. It’s _history_.

And it’s where Sam must get some of his ideas on curses and blood rituals and demons. All that dark stuff in his books. It’s research and preservation. He’s made a full-blown hobby out of the occult objects he uses as deadly devices in his books.

Later that day, Chuck starts reading _Time for A Wedding_, Sam’s first book. He never read it because he’d heard...

Well. He hadn’t really heard much. He’d read this guy’s work like junk food, before. Not in any serious way. Really, it was more of an assumption, on his part, that the first book would be the weakest of all Sam’s works.

Chuck can’t even read his own stuff from the tail-end of sophomore year, anymore, let alone the stuff he wrote before that. It just feels a little more respectful to judge an artist by their most recent stuff. Like, he wouldn’t want to be judged by his freshman essays and his old LiveJournal.

But _Time for A Wedding_ is sitting there, untouched, the first paperback printing, on a low shelf and clearly hasn’t ever been thumbed through before.

Since Chuck can’t find any good freelance editing jobs to do this week, he figures he might as well read.

If he hadn’t, he might never have felt it. The next time there’s a tug at his heart.

Because the doomed protagonist is roped in by a witch who makes him forget about the love of his life. The soft girl with paint on the tips of her flyaway curls who left practice pots, fired but unglazed, on the windowsills all across the first apartment either of them ever shared.

The protagonist’s mind is a running list of memories slipping through your fingers. You watch in terror as the witch drains his mind and makes him think this sapping, this ‘removal of pain’ is love.

It’s not a weak book. Chuck hasn’t read _Swap Meat_, either, but he doubts Sam has any weak books.

He’s beginning to oscillate between begging for Sam to give him an hour to explain his motivation and his process, and basically begging to take Sam to a bar to replace his missing beer and just lean there, listening to him spin tales for a whole night.

The stories hurt, but they hurt in a way that’s meaningful.

* * *

Then there’s the other books. The books on the shelf that Sam didn’t write. The pre-law textbooks gathering dust, the YA and sci-fi novels that are bent and floppy from repeated readings. Writers he’s never heard of. Stories about stuff you don’t typically see – folks who live on the fringes and who have hard jobs and who die too young.

Intense books, too. Not just drama and crime thrillers but non-fiction volumes that delve deep into a wide range of subjects, from epic poems to coffee, foreign wars, the history of cosmetics, the lives of gothic writers, mythological creatures, haunted ‘tours’ of random cities, on and on.

Chuck picks through all the shelves in the house. For the first time in months he isn’t bothered about having canceled his Netflix to save money because he’s too absorbed in reading, learning, and, by way of all these endless volumes, getting to know Sam. Learning about his interests, his knowledge base, even the books he was clearly not into – the few pristine volumes that might not even have been opened, considering how they crack when he pulls the front cover open. He starts to theorize, with some knowledge of Sam’s background, whether these were bought by him and never delved into, or given to him and ultimately of no interest.

He checks in with Sam via text every other day just out of his own imagined obligation to do so. He hasn’t mentioned his drunk texts since he sent them, only snapped pictures of the dogs and sent assurances that all was well with the house. Some mail came that looked kind of important. Sam asked him to use the scanner/printer to email them to him and thanked him for looking out.

_ **All that stuff was supposed** _  
_ ** to be sent to my agent** _  
_ ** so I could get it on the road :/** _

Chuck is sure that’s annoying but this one event and that one text have also helped quash the final doubt he had about who Sam was. Chuck always doubts himself and doubts his own conclusions, but it’s true: Sam is actually an author out on a book tour. He has a huge house and all the dogs he wants and an agent and probably a massive legion of fans.

Wow.

His picture isn’t in any of his dustjackets and Chuck has resisted the temptation to closely inspect the photos in the bedroom, or look him up online, or even search for any of his interviews on the morning shows. For some reason, not seeing Sam before he actually meets him feels like the right move.

He doubts himself again: maybe... maybe it’s actually the wrong move. It will probably make him freak out when Sam is actually in front of him for the first time, walking into his house and reclaiming his space (from the stranger who’s now poked through all of his bookshelves). He thinks about looking Sam up again.

And ultimately rejects the idea once more. Decides on a response to the text.

**If you need me to check  
on anything else, just lmk**

If his agent missed this mail, there’s no telling what else they may have missed.

_**Nothing that I can think of.**_  
_** Everybody okay there?**_  
Sam answers shortly after.

Chuck closes his laptop and takes it to dump off in the guest room. He wanders out back to find the dogs are... gently playing with an unfamiliar cat.

He takes his phone out and starts to record. The cat doesn’t shy away when he comes closer.

“We have a guest, guys?” The dogs wag and wander around him. Chuck comes to sit across from the cat and waits for it to come sniff at his knees; his hands, when he offers them. He pets it. The cat is hefty and orange and has a collar. The tag reads _Monster_. “Oh, that’s promising. Hello, Monster.”

He also records when Friday comes to plop down practically on top of the cat and Monster turns over to bat at her some and then just lie back and wait her out. She’s too big to be moved by such a tiny thing.

Chuck keeps recording and makes sure to catch the activity of all the dogs, even starts a new video for a special occasion. “Okay, Ralph’s best qualities on display,” he throws the springy duck toy for Ralph who rolls around gnawing on it until it’s half destroyed. He’ll definitely finish the job throughout the day.

He sends the videos to Sam.

**_Monster__ is back!!_**  
He seems excited.

**Is monster yours?**

_ **No he belongs to a neighbor** _  
_ ** but we haven’t seen him** _  
_ ** in a while. He’s deeply** _  
_ ** unpleasant the dogs LOVE** _  
_ ** him.** _

Chuck laughs pretty hard at that.

**_Thank you for the videos_**  
Sam adds heart emojis and things.  
_**Ten days until I get home**_  
_** to everybody. I miss them**_  
_** so much.**_

Yeah. Ten days until this job explodes. Chuck knows he should be looking for something else more steady but he just keeps curling up on the couch to read.

This has been such a safe, quiet place out of time and away from all his obligations. He’s felt so renewed by this.

That’s when he kind of decides to start cleaning. He knows the text wasn’t meant as some sort of ‘better have the place ready for master’s return’ sort of warning, but it would be nice for the whole home to be a clean place for Sam to land, just as he remembers, and without having to do a lot of work after so long away.

Chuck busies himself with a little more cleaning than reading over the next two days. Sunday likes to help by walking around after him with a roll of paper towels.

He also realizes he’s actually gonna miss each of these little personalities once he’s gone.

Chuck snags a piece of paper out of the printer before dinner and clearly writes all his contact info to leave on the fridge if Sam ever needs “Housesitting, dogsitting, dog walking” and... after mulling it over, he dares to add that he’s a decent editor and makes a pretty good second set of eyes if Sam ever wanted to share a draft. He doesn’t mention on paper that he would absolutely do that for free, just to get a better look at Sam’s process and have a nice, contemplative journey through his head in the early stages of drafting.

You know, he’s sure somebody like Sam would have a whole team of professionals who could look at his work via his publisher or whatever, but once Chuck’s words are on the page, he can’t stop hoping that Sam might actually take him up on it, someday. He has another idle fantasy about sharing beers and talking plots and remembers to go out and buy a new sixer for him before his return.

Just to be nice, he asks, **Groceries?** before he heads out of the house the next day.

Sam replies with just a _???_, though.

Chuck sniffs and pulls his shoes on.

**Figure u want to stay cooped**  
** up at home after all the time**  
** away. I am going to the store.**  
** If u need anything just lmk**  
** and I’ll grab it. It’s not out of**  
** my way.**

On the way to the store he gets some alerts on his phone and doesn’t get to check them until he’s parked. The first is an email for a payment of $200. Another email follows it with a list of groceries hastily typed out with barely any commas. It ends, **_And let me know if you need more for all that. Seriously, thank you. THANK YOU. You’re my hero right now. I’m so grateful you offered and I can’t wait to meet you and thank you in person. –Sam._**

This gives him pause.

This also gives him... sweaty palms.

He has a lot of time to mull over this response at the grocery store. He feels a little short of breath, flushed. A little giddy at the idea. His... yeah, his heart is racing.

Sam wants a mix of real food and junk food and cheese which reminds him a lot of his own grocery store habits. With all the money left out of the $200, he grabs several more things to make a couple nice meals that will have leftovers – something easy to pop in the microwave and zap back to life, or toss into a pan and re-heat. Homemade comfort food, some of the stuff that Chuck likes so much, he doesn’t mind spending a couple hours over the stove. If it were him away from home for so long, Chuck really can’t imagine he’d want to have to cobble something together on his own or instantly resort to heating up frozen TV dinners.

He has a moment of profound confusion while checking out. Why is he doing this for someone who’s effectively just his employer?

Well. There’s the over-generous $200 and the way Sam thanked him so sincerely.

And then there’s the way Sam said he couldn’t wait until they met.

And then, starting up the car the confusion breaks. Gives way to clarity.

Sam is looking forward to meeting him.  
And, as he tells himself this, his heart beats faster.

He hasn’t met Sam. He doesn’t... well. He doesn’t really know Sam.

Maybe internally? Maybe he knows about Sam’s likes and dislikes and maybe he has some assumptions he’s made about how great he imagines it would be to talk with Sam, to be friends with him, to know him.

Chuck swallows against a dry mouth.

How great it would be to, um. Well. Sit in bed and read books with him before they go to sleep. Talk plot and characterization over breakfast. Cuddle on the couch with the dogs. You know. _Together_.

Chuck is a little mortified, truth be told.

You can’t just go and fall in love with someone without ever even having met them. Most days he’s been too chickenshit to even text Sam anything just, like, mild and conversational.

Sam is, to Chuck’s mind, something of a celebrity. He’s a big enough name in modern publishing to spend months out on the road doing book signings, appearances, and talk shows. As much as Chuck’s attracted to his mind and his creativity and his work, he’s got no idea what he’s like in person and he’s clearly fucking intimidated at the thought of actually being in his presence.

In his writing, it’s clear that Sam is perfectly okay with same-sex relationships and does justice to his LGBT characters, but Chuck doesn’t even know his orientation—

Okay. Um. Wikipedia is right there at his fingertips at all times. So.

He could just look and see if—

But his picture might be on his Wiki page.

Chuck still hasn’t looked.

He thumbs at his phone screen but recognizes why he’s been hesitating on the point for weeks. Because if he sees what Sam looks like it’ll ruin this little fantasy his brain has been quietly building about what it would be like to have a real connection to him.

If he’s attractive, it’ll make Chuck a sweaty mess on the day he shows up. If he’s not the type of guy Chuck is attracted to, he’s gonna try to bend himself into a new shape to fit an ideal he’s based on all these assumptions and it would be just as unfair to himself as it was Sam.

“What the _whole-entire-fuck_ am I doing?” he rolls his eyes at himself and pockets his phone. Drives back home.

To—to work. Back to work. Back to Sam’s place, that is. Not home.

His own home is a dumpy apartment he shares with a roommate who definitely isn’t missing him.

Once the groceries are all in and the dogs are all walked, Chuck has some time to stare at the email again and wring his hands. He pulls out the ingredients for dinner and hesitates some more.

He starts prepping things.  
He knocks his head on the cabinet for a minute before turning back to his phone.

**Just checking - got any food**  
** allergies or severe dislikes**  
** before I finally cook a meal**  
** in ur house?**

He sends the message and turns back to click on the stove and get to work.

** _Nothing severe. I’m not_ **  
** _ wild about a few things but_ **  
** _ nothing will kill me. What_ **  
** _ ya cookin?_ **

He’s cooking no less than three things so that Sam has lots of leftovers. But he says, **Soup**.

**_I’m jealous_**  
Sam responds with several sad faces.  
_**I’m eating pizza again**_  
_** tonight and I’m so sick**_  
_** of it.**_

Yeah. Pretty much what he thought.

It dawns on Chuck that he could look closer at the few, small photos in Sam’s room. He could probably guess which one is him without any harm – he always fucks up at trying to put names with faces. But through process of elimination, he could probably tell which person was him, or narrow it down to two or three people.

He’s glad he didn’t do that before.  
He’s glad he still doesn’t know.

No. Chuck takes a deep breath.

Instead, he’ll allow himself this: he keeps texting back.

He works steadily for, like, more than two hours. He makes a red pepper soup. He makes meatballs and gravy and bakes fingerlings with a ton of seasoning to go with them. Then he makes a kind of rice skillet with chicken sausage. Veg, beef, and chicken. That covers a pretty good range. Hopefully one of those things will work for Sam.

Well. Hopefully _all_ of those things will work for Sam, but he isn’t exactly a star chef. He’s just a hungry dude who’s picked up skills on a can’t-afford-to-tip-then-don’t-go-to-restaurants budget.

He... well, okay. In all honesty he _really wants_ Sam to like this. He’s sent Sam pictures of the soup and toast and he disappeared for a while but he came back as Chuck was pulling the skillet out of the oven.

_**Had to go buy a**_  
_** goddamn vegetable**_  
he reports, sending back a picture of a bag of kale chips and a couple sad bananas.  
_**I am jealous as hell,**_  
_** for real.**_

Chuck kinda collapses onto the couch and Monday and Ralph come to sit on him.

“Guys,” he puts down the phone to pet them. “Do you know, by any chance, if your dad’s into dudes? Because I’m super crushing on him. If that wasn’t bad enough, I just made him desperate for real food.”

Monday barks some bad breath into his face which, he assumes, is probably a “no.”

**It’ll all be over in a**  
** couple days. You’re**  
** almost at the finish line.**  
Chuck tries to sound encouraging.

**_Until the next round_**  
Sam sends with an eyeroll emoji.

Ugh. It’s gonna take a while for the food to cool off enough to be fridged or frozen. Chuck has an idea. He gets up to turn half of the new loaf of bread into croutons for the soup.

And he tries to change the subject. Leads Sam on a path of more positive thoughts. Where he’s gonna take the dogs when he gets home to them. Whether or not he ever takes that amazing car out for a joyride while his brother’s out of the country.

He doesn’t have to try too hard to nudge the conversation into a personal direction. Sam tells him all about his brother. And his friends. And his current lack of romantic partner.

But that’s how he puts it. Romantic partner. Partner. “Someone.”

It’s so vague it gives Chuck heartburn. Though that might be the beer and the red pepper.

Once the puppies are pretty much crashed out, he’s still in the kitchen, up on a stool, sipping water and exchanging texts with Sam. It’s late and Sam’s back in this time zone, now, so he knows it’s late for him, too. He keeps expecting him to wrap up the conversation—

The phone rings in his hand while he’s typing out a new text.

Anna.

“Hey,” he answers.

It’s a little quiet on the other end before she sighs. “Hey.”

He knows it’s not good. He knows, just from the sound of her.

“Anna? Everybody okay?”

She sniffles. “He passed. My dad, he’s. He’s gone.”

Geeze. Fuck. “God, I’m really sorry.”

“I was just.” She stops, sounding a little lost. “I donno. I just left you there. I donno, I figured I’d tell you?”

It’s alright if she can’t make sense of things right now. How could she, really? “It’s fine,” he assures her. “You need me to call anybody? You need anything?”

“Ah. Um. God. I donno. I donno.” She just keeps echoing the same words for a while.

“I can call Ruby for you?” he prompts.

“I did. Already. I did. I just- well. I guess I ran out on Sam, too. Could you just let him—or no,” she stops. “I mean he doesn’t need to hear about this.”

“He’s your friend, I’m sure he would care,” Chuck is pretty sure he would care even if they weren’t friends. Sam’s nice. Chuck gets the impression that Sam just gives a shit by default.

She continues to kind of hem and haw over the line. She’s gotta be physically exhausted on top of the emotional drain. “Look. Go and, like, go back to your family, okay? I’ll let Sam know and if you can think of anybody else you need to call, I think you should let me know. Me or Ruby. We can get hold of them and then not everything will be on your shoulders, okay? Let’s do that, Anna.”

“Okay. Okay,” she finally agrees. “Yeah. Good. Thanks.”

“No biggie. Go on. Goodnight. I’m real sorry. Just. You know,” he shrugs, feeling way out of his depth.

“Thanks,” she says again. “’Night, Chuck.”

The call just drifts closed like it was swept away on the wind. The end-call tone doesn’t sound for a while so Chuck taps his screen awake to end it.

Wow. Alright.

Shit. This is awful.

Okay, how is he supposed to do this?

Sam texted back while he was talking to Anna.

He doesn’t look at it, just taps his contact and calls him.

This is gonna be a weird way to end a night. Chuck feels a strange stillness come on as the phone rings.

“Oh. Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean you had to call-” Sam starts.

And Chuck wanted the chance to hear Sam the first time he opened the front door to welcome him home. He was totally hoping for something else.

Really? He doesn’t know what he was hoping.

But this is what he has. And he passes on the news about Anna’s dad. And they’re both really quiet for a while.

“Fuck,” Sam says after a while. “Fuck. Is she... I mean, obviously she’s not _okay_, but??”

“She sounded dazed.”

“I bet she would,” he kind of agrees.

Chuck tries to explain. He tries to explain but it’s weird? And it’s late. And the call goes on quietly and sadly and in complete opposition to how the whole night went. They both feel a little useless in the face of this. But Sam sounds like his mood has been utterly sunk.

This is someone, Chuck thinks with absolutely no doubts whatsoever, who has lived years in this kind of grief. That’s what this feels like.

Chuck suddenly thinks he knows, without having many of the details, a whole lot more about the boxes in the shed.

“Is she coming back to town, do you know?”

“Uh. She didn’t say,” Chuck shrugs. “But I’d be kind of surprised if she did. She—all the rest of her family has moved away from here. It was just her, here.”

“She’d wanna be where her people are,” Sam seems sure about that. “Yeah.”

Chuck honestly doesn’t know what the fuck else he’s supposed to do on this call. It isn’t helping Anna and it isn’t helping either of them. It’s making his stupid crush look juvenile and his weird Suzie Homemaker kitchen scheme seem downright embarrassing.

“Look, I don’t wanna keep you much longer. I’m gonna call one of her friends and see if we can... like, help out or something. I guess.”

“Oh, right. Right, of course. Hey, I just. Um. I know this is totally— ah, well, it feels inappropriate or something right now. Um.” Sam hesitates for another moment. “Just, thanks for keeping me company tonight. Thanks for. I guess, for everything.”

Everything.

Chuck doesn’t know what everything. He can’t make sense of this call or himself or this crazy world right now.

They’re pleasant for another minute until Chuck gets off the line with him and scrolls his contacts to find Ruby.

* * *

In the end, Chuck winds up leaving the house in about as much of a rush as Anna did on that first day.

The next night, after the cooking and the call, he feeds and walks the dogs one more time, and since Sam’s plan is to be home first thing in the morning, Chuck leaves notes about what’s in the fridge and any other updates and just kind of scrambles to get his shit and get out the door.

Ruby is waiting at his apartment to drive north with him. He needs to pull together a suit and iron it and.

Damn. Attend his first funeral.

They pool gas money and take one car. On their way out of town, Ruby swings by Sam’s house for him. He just wants to see that—

Yes. That there’s a car parked out front and no sounds of barking chaos from the door.

Sam must be home. The dogs will be okay.

He rolls up the window and nods and Ruby repeatedly breaks the speed limit and several state and local ordinances to get to her friend’s side as soon as possible.

* * *

It’s a rough week, to say the least.

Being at a funeral reminds him that, you know, he’s gonna be standing in Anna’s place someday. He has family and friends and, no matter how strained some of his relationships are at the moment – or how good – he’ll have to say goodbye to everyone, eventually. Or they’ll say goodbye to him.

It’s gotta be natural to hit a low like that, right? But the mood doesn’t seem to end with the funeral, it just drags through the following days.

He downloaded one of the books he saw on Sam’s shelf, so he’d have something to read on the way back home. One of the many he didn’t have time to get to. Ruby decided to stay with Anna for a while until she decided what she was gonna do and where she’d settle, so he got a ride back south with one of Anna’s cousins who goes to college nearby.

It’s a quiet ride and the music isn’t to his tastes and he kind of wants to recapture the interest and curiosity and life that he felt when he was roaming Sam’s house for days on end.

While it’s a nice book, an interesting sci-fi story, he continues to carry this idea of senseless loss around with him even when he gets back to the apartment and tries to return to his routine.

He discovers that part of that feeling comes from within him.

If things hadn’t ended in such a sudden fashion, he could have met the man he was housesitting for. He could have had, like, at least _one_ conversation with Sam, you know? He could have at least learned if the man he was kinda falling for, sight unseen, matched up to his words, his texts, his happy dogs, and that strong, beautiful voice which Chuck only got to hear the one time, in the midst of sad, grim revelation.

He got the payment alert when he was driving north with Ruby. Sam tipped him with an additional five percent, which is stellar. It took the edge off his concern about the delayed start to his next job hunt and kinda let him just be there for Anna and her brothers.

After the first three job applications of the morning, he’s kinda fucking around on Twitter half-heartedly when he realizes he could look up Sam’s picture, now. Nothing was ever stopping him except some kind of sweet anticipation and the moment’s definitely long past, isn’t it? Like, Sam might have tipped him for keeping the house extra clean and the grocery shopping thing, but that doesn’t mean he’ll tap him again the next time he’s on a book tour or at a speaking engagement. And he certainly skipped out of there, fast, without much explanation except a text:

**Heading to Anna’s –**  
** key stashed under**  
** the planter at the**  
** side door.**

Sam had been home and back to his life like a couple hours later.

Chuck’s pretty sure he left every volume of fiction in place, every pillow straight on the couch.

It was kinda like a holiday and it was over. Kinda like an emotional fling while on a vacation without the benefit of actually hooking up.

He enters Sam’s name into the search field and doesn’t hit enter.

Closes out the tab and works on something else.

Because it’s probably better not to think about what he’s missing out on. What he missed out on. What he missed by a mile because he never knew Sam as a friend and probably never will.

* * *

A week later, the bills make their demands. Rent is paid without any problem, but he has to put the next round of groceries on his credit card and that sucker’s already been screaming at him for a while. Naturally he’s finally on a writing tear on Wednesday morning when he gets a call from a friend who works at a restaurant looking to hire a trained bartender who can start by Friday. Much as he wants to hang up and keep writing, sense gets the better of him. Chuck drops everything, irons a shirt, and runs out for the interview, looking up cocktail recipes on his phone at stoplights so he can try to wow them with at least something.

No, he doesn’t really want the job, but he does want the money. Well. _Need_ the money.

They’re not the nicest people, but he’s loosening his tie, hoping for a call back, anyway, when he gets back to the complex and marches upstairs.

His place is at the far end of the second floor. And he stops. Because someone’s out there waiting.

It’s not his roommate’s obnoxious father, who comes around their place and leans outside on the rail, smoking like a chimney.

He’s never seen this person before, but he knows who it is. Without the dogs, without hearing his voice, and without having looked up a picture of him yet.

That’s Sam Winchester.

Something clunks in his chest, a dangerous kinda sound you’d never want your car or your fridge or your a/c to make.

It’s only dangerous to Chuck, deep within Chuck’s bones, because he had been absolutely sure that you weren’t supposed to hear that or feel that in real life. Up until now it had been some kind of embellishment invented by writers and actors and artists and nobody, in reality, was supposed to be able to clap eyes on one person, out of the billions on earth, and audibly, _physically_, _instantly_ know.

_That’s him. That’s the one_, he hears his own brain tell him. A chemical crack in his head like a goddamn glowstick and Chuck is immediately humming in only one key, harmonized with exactly one fucking person.

While reading Sam’s books, Chuck came to several conclusions about him. Assumptions, really, that are no longer just guesses because he knows he’s right. Sam is a mile tall and he would have to be a giant, wouldn’t he? To carry the weight of all the fear and anger and sorrow that wrote those books.

Chuck blinks and makes his feet move again.

Sam has a paper bag at his feet and he’s texting. He heaves a sigh and looks out over the parking lot.

And turns and spots Chuck.

_Oh, thank fuck,_ the same voice in his head, but weary with relief.

Because Sam looks like he just heard the ominous thud of an expensive impending repair hitting his very own internal combustion engine.

“Hi,” Chuck is the first to say when he steps up.

Sam blinks. “It _is_ you,” he admits, looking a little dazed.

Even with romance novels coming true directly outside his front door, Chuck’s still pretty damn sure Sam’s brain couldn’t have told him the same thing. He probably just recognizes Chuck’s voice.

Mm. _Probably_.

They’re staring, though. Like they’re trying to figure each other out, only there’s not as much mystery as you’d expect at a first meeting of two strangers.

Chuck clears his throat after a few moments. Damn him, his voice _still_ cracks, “So, h-hey. You exist. Nice to, um. Meet you.”

Sam’s mouth slowly – so slowly – cracks into a big, beautiful, charming smile. “You do, too. But I kinda figured. Because my dogs were really unimpressed when I came home and I had, like, an _entire fridge_ full of holy-shit, honest-to-god homemade meals waiting for me when I got back.”

Chuck just. Blushes. And looks away.  
Because the first thing that occurs to him is how embarrassingly overboard it’s gonna look when Sam realizes—oh, fuck it. “There’s another stack of containers in the freezer,” he kinda shrugs and then winces.

Sam only laughs. “Yeah, I noticed. I had meatballs for breakfast, so. I noticed.”

Yeah. Chuck just. Covers his mouth and thinks about stuffing his tie down his own throat.

Sam kinda looks like he’s forgotten what else he came there to say, though. He just won’t stop staring at Chuck and his smile gets a little softer but it doesn’t go away. He doesn’t... doesn’t talk. Doesn’t make a point or—

Sam Winchester is staring at him and it makes Chuck realize he was in at least one or two of those photos in the bedroom. For some reason, Chuck didn’t guess that was him. Boyish and lankier and Chuck had figured he was a friend from high school or something, but that was a younger, less-buff version of this monument of a man and.

And one of the pictures of a couple little boys, one of whom was absolutely the older brother, also showed Sam, as an infant in his brother’s arms in a grainy old Polaroid.

Grief packed in boxes in the shed out back, and screaming between the lines of the books he’s written to exorcise the ghosts of the people who knew him and loved him and left him.

Sam finally blinks and taps something with his foot. The bag Chuck forgot about.

“Figured I’d return the favor. If you’re hungry?” Sam offers.

Chuck looks down. Tinfoil in a paper grocery bag.

“It’s not- I mean. It might not be as good as yours. But I did make it. It’s not even takeout,” Sam seems to be pressing him, like he thinks he needs to be convinced.

A feeling like vertigo, like falling forward. Before Chuck remembers _oxygen_ and inhales and turns to key into the apartment. “You wanna?” he motions.

Sam ducks into his place and waits for him to point towards the kitchen, though it’s clearly visible in the next room.

He’s still staring at Chuck.

“This is okay, right?” he finally asks as they’re pulling plates and utensils together. “I mean this isn’t completely fucking weird of me to do?”

“I mean, any less weird than me leaving all that in your fridge?”

Sam wavers. “Okay, point. But, um.”

He stops. And he doesn’t really pick the thread back up until they’re dishing a decent-looking fettuccine between the two of them. Sam even got a box of those crunchy breadsticks.

“So this isn’t about the food so much as it’s about.” Sam blows out a breath before picking up his fork and barreling ahead. “I didn’t get to meet you and I really felt like I should have. And then I read the notes you left me and then there was the fridge and. Yeah. So it’s kinda weird.”

“I didn’t mean to bail like that. If you hadn’t have been coming back, I never would have abandoned the dogs-”

“No! I know,” Sam waves him off. “I felt bad because there was no way I was gonna be able to come home from all that and then turn around and get right back on the road. Like I feel bad I didn’t go to the funeral, you know?”

“I’m sure it was fine,” he looks really distressed and Chuck can’t help but reach out and touch his wrist. Taps it just once before pulling away. “Even if she ever has time to think about it, I’m sure she’ll understand. But Anna’s whole world is a little upside-down right now.”

“Totally, yeah. And this isn’t about me. Or. I-.” He stops and shakes it off and they finally dig into their food. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say, honestly.” He stops and looks dead at Chuck, again. Like he’s trying hard to read him.

Chuck tries to act normal. “Uh. How are the puppies?”

“Good. They’re fine. I think they miss you. Wednesday keeps going to the guest room.”

Oh. He really can’t help how that makes his heart melt.

“You should come back and see ‘em. Like. Whenever you. Want,” the offer trips out of Sam’s mouth.

They’re both eating. They’re both trying to make it look like they’re both sitting here just eating like normal.

While that was probably a genuine offer for Chuck to come play with dogs and hang out sometime, there’s not much denying it was also literally an invitation for Chuck to come home with him after what suddenly feels like a...

Dinner date.

Okay. Enough of this. You know what?  
“Like, I donno, today? Unless that’s too soon. I mean, you just got home the other day.”

“Pretty empty, isn’t it? I mean. I have kind of a big place,” Sam gets sauce on his lip and thumbs it off and, “Yeah, like, whenever would be fine. You’re not. Um. You’re not at work today, or?”

Chuck absolutely stares as he licks the sauce back off his thumb. “No job,” he shrugs. “Kind of a struggle right now.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “But you edit. At least your note said?”

“Freelance work is kinda rough. Everybody wants maximum effort on 600,000 words for, like, thirty dollars.”

“Well, fuck that. Maybe I can-” he stops himself, slows down. “Ah, you know. I can try to help with that if you want?”

Without meaning to, Chuck sits there with his fork half-way to his mouth. Doesn’t realize he’s just smiling softly until Sam starts to stare back. “Uh. You really don’t have to do that-”

“Anna talked about you sometimes but I didn’t get it.”

Didn’t get it? Chuck hesitates and then eats what’s on his fork. “Uh. We kinda hang out,” he answers, chewing. “Like I mean, we’re not besties, you know?” he shrugs.

“Oh. So you’re not, like.” Sam makes a face that was supposed to _imply_ instead of _say _and it doesn’t – it just comes off as too goofy not to laugh at and Chuck does. “Interested in her?” Sam finishes, laughing at himself, too.

His eyes are green and his v-neck is grey and his arms are big and he can cook. They’re laughing together and probably _at _each other and awkward for no reason and suddenly it all just stops.

For no reason at all, sight unseen before ten minutes ago, they suddenly have a perfect read on one another.

Chuck’s laugh tapers off. “No. I’m, um. I’m kinda busy being broke and having a crush on somebody else right now.”

Sam finishes what’s on his plate and sits back a little. “This was missing something. Sorry about that.”

“It’s good. I mean it _was_ good. We both kinda vacuumed it down,” he motions to their plates.

“Nah. It was missing something. I can fix it though.”

Chuck wracks his brain. It really wasn’t lacking at all. “Like. Dessert?”

Sam grins. “Dessert would be good. But I was thinking wine. This was definitely a white wine kinda dish.”

“Damn. I just interviewed at a bar. I should have stolen some.”

“To be fair, I surprised you,” Sam laughs.

“Yes, you did,” Chuck sighs in a way that betrays the tangled mass of his guts at the moment because truer words have yet to be spoken.

It was the wrong moment to lose his grip on that feeling.

Sam’s smile disappears and it’s like he sinks back into himself. Ducks back behind a wall.

From the looks of it, a structure that’s been up and well-tended for quite some time.

It sure didn’t seem like there were pictures of girlfriends up on those walls. Or boyfriends. There was a really small set of people. Chuck saw Anna in a couple of pics, and some other folks he’s met through her, though they’ve aged a fair bit.

And then there were the boxes in the shed.

Chuck frantically grasps for some way to get them back to where they were a moment ago because Sam was literally fucking flirting with him.

“Wine. Wh-what kind?”

Sam grimaces a little. “I was gonna—I mean.” He piles his fork and knife onto his empty plate. “I was. I don’t actually have wine at my house. I only have beer,” he shrugs and his flash of a smile is only a tenth of what it was before.

“Beer and dogs,” Chuck tosses out. “Sounds like a fucking party to me.”

He snorts. “You just got finished watching after them for the better part of a month. It-”

“I owe you more! Uh. Because. Because I already drank your beer. I- that wasn’t your beer in your fridge. I drank yours and then put a new one in there and it- it was on sale. When I bought it. So. I owe you two dollars worth of beer. Because of the sale price. We can pick some more up on the way.”

Oh, that was weird.  
Oh, that was dumb to say. That was grasping at straws.

Sam starts to get a funny look on his face. Starts to say-

Alright, fuck it.

“You said I could go back to your place, I wanna go b-ack to your place,” Chuck’s voice goes so high it cracks again.

Sam fiddles with his fork for a minute while carefully not looking at him. “You said that. You, um. Admitted that, already. When you texted me.” He sniffs. “Hey.”

Chuck leans forward.

“Why did you... cook all that for me? Because I was pathetic about having to eat pizza all the time?”

“I was, eh. I was... already cooking by the time you said that. I had already started doing all that.”

Sam finally meets his eyes again. “Because?”

He spreads his hands out on the table and spans his fingers wide. And stares at them while he talks. “I didn’t know it was you until I kinda figured out it was you. So then I sat there and read your books for a few weeks and hung out with your dogs and crawled around inside your brain. All I could figure after that was. I donno. That you were already so _in the house_ that you probably just couldn’t wait to get back there and you wouldn’t wanna leave for days after. You’d just wanna sit there and be surrounded by it and. I mean. I guess I know what that’s like even more now. Because I’ve felt that way since I left it,” he admits with a strangled laugh.

He has. He really has. The high ceilings make his apartment seem so stifling. The friendly jangles and tapping clacks and gentle boofs of the dogs make his apartment feel empty, even in the hours when he knows his roommate is around. And he feels like he’s ready to have hours-long conversations with Sam about anything and everything when, really, they hardly know one another.

“She, um. Anna said if I met you, I’d probably like you. And she. She keeps trying to.” Sam sits up straight and Chuck looks at him and. Sam blows out a breath. “She set me up with someone like a few months ago. And then I had to leave. And then she told me about you. She told me you were looking for work, but she’s my friend, so I asked her to housesit first.” He shrugs.

“Understandable. You trust her.”

“My _dogs_ keep looking for you. You made me dinner for, like, a fucking _month_. I’m gonna eat it all by next week because it’s so goddamn _good_.” Of all things, Sam seems utterly perplexed by this.

“Wanna.” Chuck stops himself.

But Sam has his focus, now. And he should finish his sentence.

Maybe.

“Wanna go... out? Sometime?”

“No! I wanna stay in and _never eat pizza again_ and cook vegetables and lie on the floor with my dogs!” Sam laughs. And waits.

Waits for Chuck to get it. Which he does. Because _that’s him; he’s the one._

“Me too. But I don’t have dogs.”

“Wanna share? I’ve got like ten.”

“Eight. Unless there’s been some serious developments since I last saw them.”

Sam waves a hand. “You and me, that makes ten, total. Sorry. My math was premature.”

“We might have to name Ralph something else. People are gonna think we’re in a throuple.”

He shakes his head at Chuck in wonder. “Are you always like this? Where you take the most roundabout path to a point and then suddenly make the point?”

Chuck frowns, then perks. “I’m not sure. Maybe. But tell you what. You can read _my_ stuff, this time, and you can tell me.”

“You’re gonna.” Sam stops and blinks. “You’ll let me crawl around in your brain?” Sam seems surprised.

“It’s only fair. Plus the beer.”

“You don’t owe me beer. You don’t owe me anything. You did—you’ve done like a really _absurd_ amount of shit for me for no fucking reason.”

“Absurd?” Chuck frets.

Sam just shakes his head. “Just. Just show me how we do your dishes and let’s get out of here. You’re keeping these leftovers,” he starts putting the tinfoil back on the food he brought.

“My roommate will eat it if we leave it,” he frowns.

“Maybe you should live with someone who isn’t rude,” Sam smirks.

“Like someone who makes dinner and pays me to house-sit?”

Sam doesn’t reply but he does give Chuck _a look_.

It’s about as good as a reply.

* * *

Sam offers to drive and then takes it back. He thinks aloud that maybe Chuck should take his own car so he can go back home for the night.

“It is uh. Well, it’s gonna get late. Not that you’re not welcome in my car.”

“But I’ll have wine. And beer, maybe. I won’t be driving,” Chuck points out.

“Oh. Yeah, okay.”

Doesn’t take much convincing.

They aren’t having this conversation across the top of Chuck’s car. They’re having it practically slam up against one another. Only they haven’t touched and it feels like a fallen powerline is buzzing between them at their feet, where just the white line of the parking space marks the distance.

There’s a couple nice trees on Sam’s block. They reach out, to either side, like they’re trying to cover both the yards they belong to and be the welcoming arch out over the quiet street, at the same time.

Sam turns the car slowly and it’s not just like an arch, it’s like they push through a veil on the street going from dusk to dark and it feels like Chuck’s going home to unwind after a tough weekend away.

_Home is this way_. He hears it and he feels it and he agrees.

It’s a little weird, even, that Sam is the one who has the key and who pushes the door open, crowding the dogs out of the entry. He doesn’t let them slip through but it’s a near thing.

Then he reaches out and touches Chuck’s shoulder, pulling him through the slim opening of the door.

Suddenly Tuesday is barking at Wednesday who’s broken-howling and nearly tackles Chuck when he makes it through under Sam’s long reach.

He doesn’t really stand a chance. Ralph is on him and Sunday. Then Thursday nearly licks his eyeball and Sam pries Monday away to rescue Chuck from the surge.

Wednesday is far too big to be picked up, but she’s crying like a baby and Chuck decides to do his best. Wading through to the living room with Sam’s help, he crashes on the couch with the dog shoving her wet nose all in his neck snuffling into his shirt like crazy.

He hugs and hushes her and-

Saturday brings over his favorite toy, a raggedy Cookie Monster, and forces it into his hand like he’s trying to give it to him. To make him stay.

So, suddenly Chuck’s trying not to cry.

Wednesday stops scrambling around on his lap and lets him hug her. He rattles the Cookie Monster and three of the dogs go nuts all over again.

“Oh no,” he whines pathetically.

“I know,” Sam comes back around the couch with two beers and lets Monday go to help him calm Wednesday down. “Told you.”

“Aw, you guys!!”

Ralph tries to climb over them both and Sam pulls him away because Wednesday is still all they can handle.

“I don’t know how you did this. Friday’s almost as big as you,” Sam goes to take a sip of his beer and stops. Closes his eyes and cringes. “Shit. Sorry.”

Chuck leans into him and smiles because Sam’s warm and big and loving, just like all his dogs and because, “It’s okay. You’re not wrong.”

Sam uncaps his beer for him and hands it over. He has to hold it up out of the dogs’ reach for a while before he can take a sip.

He alternates between throwing Cookie Monster and playing tug-o-war with it. Wednesday will “row-row-oow” for his attention and Sunday manages to crowd up against his right side.

Sam settles against his left and eventually just slips his arm over Chuck’s shoulders.

“God, it feels good to be here,” Chuck instantly confesses. “Just, in any way, if you ever doubted it – you really shouldn’t. You have a _really_ _beautiful_ house and I don’t know if I like any of my fucking _friends_ as much as I like these doggos.”

“Mm,” Sam polishes off his beer. “Thanks.” He clacks it on the side table and takes Chuck’s from him.

And just pulls him onto the floor along with Sunday and Wednesday and all the rest of them who get up to circle them and find a place to settle, on top of them and wedged into their sides, tails thwapping their knees and arms, Friday _steps on_ Chuck’s stomach which is, ugh, ow, a bit not good, but her soft head lands right were Chuck can pet it.

When he lolls his head to the side, Sam is staring at him, smiling. Chuck’s pretty sure he’s been doing that since they got here, but under the pitter-patter of giant paws, butterflies are still throwing a rager on his insides and he looks over knowing he’ll feel that fission of energy, again, and he’s only been talking to Sam for like an hour, so he can’t believe that he can trust this feeling.

They can cook vegetables and lie on the floor with dogs all night. Or they could. If Sam likes him enough to-

Roll onto his side and touch his head. Draw him into a kiss. A light thing with their eyes half-hooded. Settled close and warm and Wednesday barks once, like she approves.

“If you’re really okay with me reading your stuff?” Sam prompts.

Chuck nods.

Sam takes a deep breath. “Anna sent me your name before she knew if she’d be able to take the job. And I looked you up,” he confesses, pressing in to kiss Chuck again. “I already did it. I looked you up and I found your blogs and stuff. I’ve been crawling around in your head since I heard of you. God, I’ve been reading you since before we met. I can hear you in my head already. I could hear your voice before you ever sent me a video.” He touches Chuck’s ear, skids fingers down to his collar. “Is it totally weird that I think I kinda started falling in love with you before I even met you? That’s stalker-y, right? That’s fucked.” He keeps trailing these gentle touches. Looks like he wants to savor them before Chuck turns and runs because Sam is a freak.

Which would be really hypocritical of him. Because Chuck’s been having heart-stopping moments of realization ever since he first entered this house.

He doesn’t just wanna pick Sam’s brain. He wants to listen to Sam ramble over breakfast and curse when he’s doing revisions and bellow out to the dogs when they go to the park.

“I’ve been living in your house, sleeping in your bed, drinking your beer. If you’re a stalker, I’m worse; I’m like fucking Goldilocks.”

Sam’s smile is big and relieved. And he reaches down and hefts Wednesday out of the way. “You gotta move, pupper. I found one that’s _just right_.”

“That’s my line,” he reaches to touch Sam’s hair when he’s drawn into his arms.

“So say your line,” Sam grins. “So talk. Tell me _everything_.”


End file.
